The Flight of June
by Anrheithwyr
Summary: If there was one thing that Oliver loved most in the world, it was flying.


_**Written for the 'Quidditch League Competition' Round 2: A Little Appearance, using Oliver Wood and Flying. **_

…

_June 30, 1980_

"Dad!" the boy yelled, raising his arms up again towards his father. "Dad! Again, again! Again, Dad!" He giggled, slightly out of breath as his father picked him up.

The boy was named Oliver Wood, a four year old whose current occupation in life mostly consisted of being a rather rambunctious only child to his younger parents.

Mr. Wood scooped his son up, beginning to turn in circles very slowly, picking up speed the longer he went.

Oliver shrieked with joy as his father spun about, watching the world turn to nothing but blurry shapes around the two of them.

It was like being a human top, spinning around and around until Oliver's head itself seemed to spin and he couldn't tell if the sky was still above him, or if it had tipped sideways like the rest of Oliver's world, other than his father's arms.

And then, Oliver flew.

His father released the four year old suddenly, letting his son sail through the air and for a brief second that felt like something just short of an eternity for Oliver, the little boy _actually flew_.

In the next instance, though, Oliver was sitting on the ground, unhurt despite the fact that he really ought to have hit the dirt face first and begun crying, which is what might have happened to Oliver, had he not actually been a wizard.

Instead of hitting the dirt and crying, though, Oliver only leapt to his feet once more, yelling "Again, again!" with excitement.

Mr. Wood laughed, pretending to complain of a bad back and saying that he was simply just too old to spin around anymore.

If Oliver had been maybe even two years older, this might have seemed ridiculous to him, as Mr. Wood was only twenty-two years old, but to Oliver, this seemed to be a perfectly plausible complaint for his "old" father to make.

The little boy pouted, mouthing the words "Again, again. Daddy, again, "until his father took pity on him and scooped the boy up once more beginning to turn in place slowly once more, grinning as his young son began to shriek happily.

Mrs. Wood, who was also considerably young at not quite twenty-one, laughed at the sound of her son whooping loudly.

Though the little boy before her had caused Mrs. Wood to have to drop out of Hogwarts in her fifth year, she didn't harbour any bad feelings about it, not when it meant that, in exchange, she had gotten such a lovely little boy.

In fact, Mr. and Mrs. Wood loved their son very much, doting on Oliver and encouraging him to do whatever it was that the imaginative little boy could ever possibly hope to do.

Right now, Oliver wanted to be a bird and so, never one to say that such things were impossible as an older father might have said, Mr. Wood was helping Oliver to _fly._

…

_June 11, 1982_

It was amazing how quickly time flew by with a young child-very soon, Oliver's sixth birthday had arrived, and that morning, there was a great amount of activity at the Wood house.

Oliver had awoken shortly before five-thirty in the morning, running through the house and yelling loudly that _today_, he was six years old and it was time to _wake up_.

Mr. and Mrs. Wood-who were actually named Paul and Abigail-woke up with a lot of groaning, wondering where their young son could have possibly gotten so much energy at such a time as this, when most mornings, he refused to wake up before eight.

Oliver wanted to open his presents _immediately_, but his parents argued that five forty-five in the morning was _not _the time to open presents.

_Later_, they told him, still yawning from lack of sleep. _Later, Ollie, later. We'll open them later, but please, not right now._

But Oliver wanted presents _now_. That was, after all, why he had woken up so early.

Finally, tired and wishing to merely placate the little boy, his parents agreed he could open one-_just one for now, though, and the rest later_-of the presents of Oliver's choice.

The six year old picked up one of the wrapped packages, happily tearing away at the paper, revealing a slender broom with a fine handle.

It was a Cleansweep Five, the best broom that Paul Wood could afford with his salary, and he knew the money was worth it when Oliver shrieked happily and demanded to be taught_-now_-how to fly on the broom.

He clambers onto the Cleansweep, leaning forward and giggling when the tail of the broom lifted upwards, causing Oliver to slide forward a bit with it.

When he leaned backwards, the handle rose and the tail dipped, letting Oliver slide backwards as well, still smiling.

He wasn't flying yet, not properly, but he _was _hovering about half of a metre off the ground, laughing wildly as he carefully lifted one hand and waved at his parents.

"I'm a bird, Daddy! I'm a bird! I can fly, yay! Yay, Dad! Look at me, I can fly!" The broom jilted forward a little and he lurched with it, clutching the handle but continuing to grin wildly.

"Lean forward and press your thighs against the broom if you want to move around, Ollie," Abigail Wood told her son calmly, and Oliver did just that, immediately shooting to the other of the living room, causing his parents to laugh.

"Whoo! I'm the greatest flier in the world! I'm gonna be a famous Quidditch player when I grow up. I'm the best flier, I'm the best, I'm the best! I'm gonna be famous! Yay!" he clapped his hands in excitement and then fell off sideways, no longer gripping the handle properly-or at all.

…

_June 19, 1985_

Oliver, who was now nine and very tall, was on a children's Quidditch team, which he enjoyed doing very much, mostly because he was _good _at playing Quidditch, and he was a lot better than most of the other little boys and girls on his team.

He practised every single day, spending hours in his backyard with the Quaffles that his mum had charmed to fly in Oliver's direction.

Oliver could do a lot of tricks on his broom, including flying upside down or doing loops in the air; it all made his mum somewhat nervous, but she never said much about it.

There weren't too many other kids on Oliver's street, and the few that were around were mostly older, Hogwarts students who paid the scrawny little kid only minimal amounts of attention.

He followed the older kids everywhere, asking them questions about the various Hogwarts house Quidditch teams, demanding to know the scores of games, and who won, and who was good.

If there was one thing to be said about Oliver, it was that he was a bit obsessed. Quidditch and flying and everything to do with the two-he couldn't get enough of it, and everyone who knew Oliver Wood knew he had only one thing on his mind.

He couldn't _wait _to start Hogwarts, where he would be the best Keeper for Gryffindor in years; they'd _love _him and he'd win all the games, saving every single throw of the Quaffle from his opponents until everyone knew just how skilled he was.

Right now, Oliver was stuck a children's Quidditch team with a bunch of unprofessional babies who were only on the team because where else were they going to go during the summer?

None of the other kids understood Quidditch the way Oliver Wood did. None of them _revelled _in flying, feeling the breeze all around you as you drifted in the air, nothing but a thin tree branch and your own self-confidence holding you up.

_Merlin_, did Oliver Wood ever love flying.

If he never had to come down from the sky, he might not have, but his mum was becoming concerned about the tanned skin on his neck and arms, saying he would burn soon if he didn't come back in and take a break.

Oliver sighed, though he knew his mum was right, and he jumped off of his Cleansweep Six-the one he had gotten for his birthday this year after begging his parents for it-and ran for the back door.

Mum was waiting for him, one hand holding onto a sandwich and the other resting on her large stomach, where, according to Mum and Dad, a little baby was growing.

Oliver wondered if the new baby would love to fly as much as he did, and if the new baby would be willing to let Oliver teach it how.

…

_June 27, 1988_

"This is my house," Oliver explained cheerily to his friend Percy, showing him through the cramped kitchen. "And this is the backyard, where I practise. I'm going to join the Gryffindor team next year, you know, since Maccabee's left us with no Keeper."

Percy, who didn't much care for Quidditch or any sort of talk for it, only shrugged and followed Oliver outside. They were friends, in a way that mostly meant that Percy didn't get along with the boys in his dorm, but he and Oliver didn't _hate _each other like the other boys did.

"What if they pick an older boy or girl?" Percy asked, and Oliver frowned. The thought hadn't occurred to the twelve year old, and he began to grow cross with this friend of his that he had invited over.

"They _won't_," Oliver finally said, doing his best to sound confident, though to be honest, he really didn't know if the Captain, a stocky Beater named Hilde Poehler, would pick Oliver, a lanky twelve year old. "They'll _have _to pick me, because I'm the best."

"But what if they don't?" Oliver glared at Percy. "What, I'm just asking? You might as well be prepared for any and all possibilities. It's very likely that they'll pick an older students who is bigger and more experienced than you. And doesn't Maccabee has a younger sister anyway?"

"Who, Mallory? She's skinnier and smaller than anyone I know! If Hilde picks Mallory over _me,_ then I hope our team keeps on with that stupid curse of always losing to Slytherin. _Honestly,_ Percy, thinking anyone would pick Mallory Maccabee over me?"

Oliver didn't really know why he was friends, exactly, with Percy Weasley, who was a bit of a busybody and a nerd.

Maybe it was the fact that no one else really seemed to like Percy's pompous air. Maybe Oliver was just feeling sympathetic to the bespectacled boy.

Either way, Oliver had invited his friend over in the hopes of getting Percy to at least _sit _on a broom for the first time, and so he tugged his friend over to his Cleansweep, the one he'd been using for three years now, ignoring Percy's whining.

"You'll like flying, trust me. _Everyone _likes flying! It's so amazing! You're up so high, up in the air like a bird and just…_just looking down at it all_…" Oliver's voice had taken on a dreamy quality as he made his friend climb upon the broom.

"I'm _not _a bird though, Oliver," Percy reminded his friend, but Oliver only pushed Percy forward, telling him to hold on tight and concentrate.

The broom rose, shakily, and not very high up. Percy turned a light shade of green and scowled down at Oliver, whose head now only brushed at Percy's thigh.

"I don't like this very much, Oliver. It's scary. How do I get down from here?" Oliver wasn't paying attention, too busy imagining himself as a famous Quidditch player. In the meantime, Percy was slipping. "Oliver? Some help, please?! OLIVER!"

"Whaa-?" Oliver blinked, looking down at the redhead who was now lying in the dirt, coughing and spluttering. "What are you _doing, _Percy Weasley? Are you making out with the ground now?"

…

_June 23, 1998_

It was the first Quidditch match in a while that Oliver had played. People had been antsy all year long, what with Voldemort slowly taking over everything, and no one had wanted to come out to the matches to watch.

But now that everything was back to normal, Quidditch had picked up once more, and Oliver, still fresh and excited from a win for Puddlemere, began to head back to the changing room, his broom tucked under his arm.

He still loved flying, even now at age twenty. In fact, up in the air, he still felt like that four year old boy in his dad's arms, spinning through the air as he laughed.

_Oliver loved flying._

"Hey, Ollie," said a quiet voice, and Oliver turned to see a tall, redheaded and bespectacled man standing just outside of the change room for Puddlemere. It was Percy, Oliver knew, though he wasn't sure why Percy was _visiting _him.

Percy had never come to a single match, not even back at Hogwarts. Percy had _always _hated flying, and now he was standing here, waiting for him.

There was a young girl next to him, with the same sandy blonde hair as Oliver. It was Oliver's kid sister, who was almost thirteen years old.

Oliver raised an eyebrow at her, as though to ask what the hell was going on, but she only shrugged nonchalantly, and Oliver knew _she _was the one who had dragged Percy over.

"I'm gonna go find Izzy," Paige said, taking off back towards the stands, leaving the two men to stare at each other wordlessly.

"It's been a while," Oliver finally said.

"Yeah," Percy replied, hands in his pocket like a kid caught taking candy. He was scuffing his shoes in the grass-very unlike him-and blushing.

"You've never stopped by a match before." Oliver said calmly.

"No, I haven't, and I'm sorry for that. I should have come to watch earlier. You're an _amazing _flier, Ollie. _Really _amazing. I…never would have _guessed_."

"You don't have to butter me up, Percy. I know you never cared for Quidditch-or me. It was always just _the Ministry _for you. And it was always just _flying _for me. I understand; you had better things to do with your life than cheer on an old friend."

"That's why I came by, Oliver! To make things up to you! I've been…I've been correcting some wrongs over the past two months, and I wanted to make things right between us…I wanted to…I don't know, go have lunch together or something…"

"Are you asking me out, Percy Weasley?" Oliver smiled, making his old friend blush and stutter, his face now redder than his hair. "Fine, but on one condition. I want to take you flying first."


End file.
